Please (Don't Stand So Close to Me)
by guineapiggie
Summary: "Yes, he'd noticed her immediately, her purity begging to be corrupted and the fact she looked infinitely more beautiful in that uniform than everybody else did, and so much like her mother. And yes, he'd thought about her in a lot of ways a teacher definitely shouldn't." Inspired by The Police. [AU, Songfic, rated T for adult topics, language and general creepiness, one-shot]


**Please (Don't Stand So Close to Me)**

**DISCLAIMER:** Nothing belongs to me, no money is made of this. Everything is with their rightful owners.

_***A/N***_ So I found this tumblr post by emperorirene and I was so freaked out at how awesome this idea was that I just had to write something even though it's like really late and I'm not sure if I produce any decent stuff around this time of day.

**Song**: "Don't Stand So Close to Me" by The Police

_This is a bit of creepyship and the song is pretty creepy so this text turned out slightly creepy. Please don't read if you feel uncomfortable with the topics dealt with in the song._

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Raindrops were drumming on the roof. The rain hardly ever stopped these days, it would seem to him, and he wondered if he shouldn't be getting used to the sound.

Because he wasn't. In fact, he found it more unnerving with every second, _tack tack tack, _it was giving him an unbearable headache.

He took a deep breath, staring emptily at the written paper in front of him, and massaged the bridge of his nose. That usually helped.

Tonight, it didn't. He sighed, shoved the glasses up his nose and took up his pen. There was decidedly too little red on the page. _The senate was the most important part of the Roman government. It consisted of members of the nobility…_

Deep down, he knew there was something wrong with that phrase, but he couldn't pinpoint what it was – in fact, he'd already forgotten the beginning of the sentence before he even reached the end of it. He stared down at the untidy scribbling, nothing to hear but the thrice-damned splatter of the rain against the windows and the rushing of his own blood in his ears, and willed himself to focus. _Christ, you didn't get half of the tests done, Petyr, and you were supposed to hand them back to them last week. _

"Fucking Romans," he muttered and leaned back in the bloody uncomfortable chair, the pen slipping from his fingers.

Who the hell cared about the Roman Republic? God knew he had bigger problems.

His eyes wandered to the only test he'd actually _read _this evening, black ink shaped into graceful, tidy little letters, only once her soft hand had accidentally smudged it, dragging out the ink from the n in Octavian across the snow-white paper-

Fuck, he'd had this job for far too long. Only a teacher could be turned on by a bloody essay about the fall of the Roman Republic.

It was so ridiculous, he was downright _ashamed _of himself, yet he could still see her, the way she'd sat bent over the paper, her thick red hair veiling half of her face, the other side tucked behind her ear. She wore her hair open these days, she never had before, and he frequently caught himself wondering if she was doing it because he liked her best that way.

He wasn't much of an artist, but he was certain he could do a perfectly accurate sketch of the way the collar of the stiff white blouse framed her delicate collarbone, he could conjure up the image right there in front of him, didn't even need to close his eyes. The shade of her pale skin against the stark white linen, the way she bit her lip whenever she got stuck, the slow smile when she found the thread again…

His breath quickened even now, even when she was nothing but a memory.

It was infinitely worse in class. Somehow his breath got stuck in his throat whenever theses ice-blue eyes looked up at him, with all her innocent, bright little schoolgirl vibes. _I can see you, Petyr Baelish, _those eyes said, _I know what you want_, and even though he did everything to never let anybody know who he was or what he was after, he believed her.

He hardly ever wrote anything on the blackboard these days, because he couldn't bear to turn his back on her for some reason. The entire lesson, he felt as if he was being held at gunpoint and if he let the barrel out of his sight, he would surely die a very painful death. Besides, his students would see his hand shaking.

It hadn't been that bad at the beginning of the year. Yes, he'd noticed her immediately, her purity _begging _to be corrupted and the way she looked infinitely more beautiful than everybody else in that cheap blouse and the pleated black skirt. Yes, he'd been thunderstruck at _how much _she looked like her mother.

And yes, he'd thought about her in a lot of ways that a teacher definitely shouldn't.

But it had all been fine. He'd been in control of things. He'd given his lessons, talking about Ancient Greece and Ancient Rome, he'd noticed her bright blue eyes on him and the little smile on her lips, and he'd enjoyed a few sweet mental images. Nothing more. All was fine.

It was a common thing, after all, and he was no stranger to it – those girls were just growing into young women, and since this was a girl's school, the male teachers were the only ones they could project their budding desires on. He was still rather young, good-looking, and he was the new one. He was the perfect candidate for a schoolgirl's crush. He had never thought that would be a problem – to be honest, he _liked _the idea, and it was not like anything would _happen. _

He wasn't one of those dumb young men who blindly threw themselves into affairs that would not only be the end of their career, but also mean a shitload of legal problems – just for a pretty face. Petyr Baelish had never met a more cunning man than himself. He was used to being the smartest guy in the room, the one in control.

_But the actions of the Gracchus brothers had lost the Senate a major part of its political control…_

Fuck, yes, it was time to just admit it, he'd lost control. Somehow, _he'd _become a piece on the chessboard that he'd always played on, and the girl was making the moves.

The class knew. He wasn't _deaf, _even though he spent half his time staring at Sansa and the other half trying to ignore her (unsuccessfully), he heard the whispers.

_Teacher's pet _was a term that came up once or twice, _see how everything she does is right? See how he doesn't even _listen _to anyone else? See how she got the good grade even though I said the exact same thing a minute ago?_

_See the way he's _staring _at her?_

Sansa's friends were the worst of all – Dany and Margaery, they saw _everything_. They were jealous, both of her grades and of the attention she got from him. They'd made her cry just last week. He didn't know what they'd said to her, but he was fairly sure it had been about him, and it must have been nasty if it made her cry. He had ignored them all day, scared he might have a go at them if he had to speak to them directly.

Young girls could be such nasty little beasts.

But that wasn't the end of his troubles, either. Somehow, something had leaked through to the staff room. Pycelle had held an _endless _speech about how "we all hope that these are invalid suspicions, Petyr, but we have to take these things seriously. Children are very vulnerable at that age and it will not do for any of us teachers to make them feel as if our relationship to them was anything but educational…"

_Fucking hell, does she look like a _child _to you? _he'd wanted to shout at him, but he'd managed to keep his mouth shut and just glower at the old biology teacher who was known for giving the girls with the lowest neckline the best grades.

Lannister just grinned and said "Don't do something we would _all _regret, please, you've got no idea of the paperwork it would mean."

Varys, the ruddy bastard, had donned his omniscient smile and had had the nerve to tell him "you must not mistake that innocent child for her mother, my friend."

He'd never wanted to punch his colleague more than in that moment.

There had even been a call from one of the parents, during all of which he'd replied nothing but "I see" and "I understand" and "this must be some kind of misunderstanding, ma'am" and repeated his own little mantra in his head – _you_ _never bloody did anything wrong, you just looked at her, that's not a crime, you've given her nothing but the grades she deserves, you've done nothing wrong, it's not a crime, it's not a crime, there's nothing they've got on you, it's not a crime, not a crime, not a crime…_

It hadn't helped. He'd felt dirty afterwards, and cornered and weak and sick and altogether absolutely awful.

.

.

She was driving him crazy, that was the truth of it. He couldn't even do his work anymore.

He sat up straight and slammed his hand on the table. A searing pain shot through his wrist, but that was worth it – _finally _there was another sound to hear than the fucking rain.

With mechanical movements, he gathered the tests and slipped them into his briefcase, got to his feet and left the room with long, firm steps.

He would do something about it. He had to, or this would absolutely ruin him. He would ask the headmaster to change classes with another history teacher. _Let that gay prick Varys deal with her, it's bloody safer for all of us._

Petyr Baelish would save his own skin because after all that was what he did best. The girl would be the end of him, it was plain as day – he knew what her mother had done to him, and Sansa was even more beautiful than her, even smarter and every bit the devil Catelyn had been at her age.

Full of grim resolve, he hurried through the wet darkness to his car.

There was a vaguely familiar song playing on the radio, a steady beat that bore into his head, an oddly disharmonious melody, a repetitive chorus. The lyrics sent a shiver down his spine and he turned the volume down.

Warm air blew from the car heater and he felt the tension in his body lessen ever so slightly.

God, he was tired, and the sight was bloody awful with all the rain, he'd get into an accident, weren't the fucking street lights working?

When he turned the corner, he noticed a lone figure standing at the bus stop in front of the supermarket. The rain was streaming down from the roof of the bus shelter and some of it blew inside, making the space under the roof exactly as dry as the rest of the street.

It had to be freezing out there in the rain.

His headlights reached the girl and he saw the way her hair clung to her pale face in thick, jet-black strands. Her coat was drenched.

He wondered for how long she'd stood there.

Bright blue eyes met his through the windshield and his foot moved off the gas pedal quite of its own accord.

.

.

The black car stopped outside the bus shelter. The girl hugged her shoulders and stepped closer.

The window was rolled down.

"You alright, Sansa?"

She smiled a meek, innocent smile, but there was something underneath it that wasn't half as innocent. "My bus is late," she replied softly.

For a long moment, there was no sound but the rain.

"Get in, I'll drive you home."

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_If you enjoyed this story, have a look at the sequel "Small Crimes" on my profile as well!_

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_**Please take a moment to review.**_


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